Flush’d is her cheek, inspired her haughty mien—
She seems the avenging goddess of the scene.
Are those her infants, that with suppliant cry
Cling round her shrinking as the flame draws nigh,
Clasp with their feeble hands her gorgeous vest,
And fain would rush for shelter to her breast?
Is that a mother’s glance, where stern disdain,
And passion, awfully vindictive, reign?
Fix’d is her eye on Asdrubal, who stands
Ignobly safe amidst the conquering bands;